


Wolf-Kissed And Raven-Born

by Dragonire



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Assassin’s Creed Valhalla Spoilers, Eivor Acting as Ceolbert’s Father, Gen, Male Eivor, Protective Eivor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonire/pseuds/Dragonire
Summary: Eivor knew there was a place at Odin’s table waiting for him, and while he had accepted the inevitability of his death; fate willing, he wouldn’t face it for many years yet.And neither would Ceolbert.With that thought to drive him, Eivor felt new strength in his grip, axe severing the head of a soldier, watching him fall only to be replaced by another, and yet Eivor still stands ready to meet him. Grip strong, shield up, he fights with the ferocity of berserkers to eliminate the soldiers that overran the city market; Ceolbert always in his peripheral.The soldiers bear spears, but the wolf-kissed bared his fangs and devoured the distance between them in a single leap, crashing upon the shields like mountain stone; splintering wood and hewing limbs from bodies as if they were trees in the forest, with no more armour than bark and rind to protect them from Eivor’s silver maw.Or: Odin is not the only one that chooses to fight the woven threads of fate; and Eivor, driven by rage, fear and pain, will not so easily give up the fight.WARNING: CONTAINS PLOT SPOILERS
Relationships: Eivor & Ceolbert Father & Son Relationship
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54





	1. Aetheling

**Author's Note:**

> You can’t expect me to play Valhalla and not be inspired to write about it, now can you.  
> (It starts off very fast paced, but will slow once plot kicks in.)
> 
> All Nordic and Old-English words are listed in the end notes of each chapter. 
> 
> **Warning:** This will contain spoilers for the Assassin’s Creed Valhalla, but will divert slightly from canon following certain in-game events.

_Harpa, Summer, 873_

When Eivor was first introduced to Thegn Ceolwulf, soon-to-be-king and second of his name, his first thoughts of the man were that of determination, impatience and a poorly veiled greed where he had willingly placed himself into the hands of Ubba, Sigurd and Ivarr for reach of Mercia’s crown.  
Whether he recognised a flicker of disbelief in Eivor’s half-raised eyebrow, or the man was discontent on others speaking in his stead, he had claimed he was only doing his duty: what was necessary for peace in Mercia, with Saxon and Dane alike. 

While Eivor couldn’t deny that Ceolwulf truly did seek peace between the warring factions—anger clear in his tone when he had spoken of the then-King-of-Mercia; Burgred—he summed the man up to be just as simple and uncomplicated as the masses, despite the vibrant coloured robe that hung from his shoulders and the gold-heavy riches that lay around his neck. 

The same, however, couldn’t be said for his son. 

Being around the company of his brother’s and Ubba’s righteous glory, as well as Ivarr’s foul and sometimes confusing humour and Ceolwulf's throne-hungering, Ceolbert was as welcoming as a breath of fresh air.  
Like his father, he was polite, well-mannered and learned—very clearly a nobleman’s son—and yet his eagerness for peace was crystal and untainted, naïve almost, but he spoke with his heart in his words and with a wisdom that was rarely seen in one so young. 

It wasn’t immediate that Ceolbert caught Eivor’s attention, nor was it immediate that Eivor noted when the boy did; not even how, moments from their first meeting, he had fallen into the familiar role of defender that he did so often for the sake of his home and clan, this time for the sake of the Saxon aetheling; Eivor having pulled his dire wolf, Hati, just a few paces ahead of the boy as they rode in tight company towards Tamworth.  
He learnt the boy’s story from Ubba as they ventured onwards; how he was to be the heir once Ceolwulf became king; how he was safest with the Danes when the then-King Burgred would sooner see him and his father dead. 

And while Eivor had come to Ledecestrescire to help the Ragnarrsons take Tamworth back from King Burgred, to ensure an alliance with the territory, and in turn, Mercia, he couldn’t help but hover a little closer to where Ceolbert and Ivarr would meet in a drawn square amongst the war-tents and watch the young aetheling get beaten over and over, yet getting back on his feet each and every time.

The boy was considered old to not yet have wet his blade with blood, even when he was nearing eighteen winters; Eivor used to boys much younger—even boys as young as eleven already fighting, back in Norway—himself having taken a taste for blood in the attack that saw his mother and father killed. 

The weight of Ceolbert’s innocence, and his dislike to kill soldiers who he had been friends with, up until his father took an active role in politics, was clear that the boy was no blood-thirsty warrior hidden beneath his armour, and while it hadn’t crossed Eivor’s mind to name him a coward—Ceolbert quick to assure him and Sigurd both that he was no such thing—it was clear that the battle of Tamworth would sooner see him killed than awakening whatever bloodlust his father expected him to possess. 

And Eivor had thought, then, as he left the boy amongst the war tents; to choose whether he fought or whether he hid; that Ceolwulf must’ve held disappointment for an heir who was sorely lacking in ferocity, certainly not determination or will to see Mercia united once more.  
And Eivor, oddly enough, found himself wondering, had he a child to call his own, would he be disappointed in their choice not to raise axe and shield, and charge unrelenting into the fray, like him. 

With the battle to take Tamworth set before him, Eivor could not have his mind riven with such pointless thoughts, casting it out as he marched towards the front line to lead the first charge.

* * *

Eivor was right with assuming Ceolwulf’s opinion of his son. 

And while it wasn’t a selfish thing to want a son to be a strong fighter and a worthy heir of the crown he would soon come into possession of, but it was another thing entirely, to rashly push him into a battle he wasn’t ready for. It was as good as offering him to Hela, without even honouring him the name of sacrifice.  
It couldn’t be said that Ceolwulf did not care for his son, but it was clear, with his path to become King laid out before him, he was eager for more than that which he had as thegn, quick to cast aside his duties, intent to throw the boy into the rage of an ocean storm when he had barely learnt to swim. 

Ivarr Ragnarrson was that storm. 

He was not a man who would teach or nurture, but the kind to tease the boy as he drowned and nei lift a finger to help; something witnessed first-hand, when Eivor sought out the coward, King Burgred, in Ledecestre and found Ivarr had sent Ceolbert beyond enemy walls to scout, without care should the boy make it back, be it riddled with arrows or not breathing at all.  
And Ceolbert, the fool, thinking that he could find King Burgred and talk him into the act of surrendering crown and army; putting himself entirely at risk when he didn’t spare not even a passing thought to his own safety nor the madness of the king he was searching for and how he’d have a sword through his gullet before he could even take a breath.

And Ivarr, curse his name, curse his impatience, turning the Ledecestre into a battlefield while Eivor and Ceolbert were still in the bathhouse, tucked into the room of hoarded supplies and very much trapped when the horns echo and the warning bells are struck. 

They had been forced to fight their way out: Eivor swinging axe into Saxon skull over and over, breath heavy, chest heaving; Ceolbert at his back, far too frightened to raise his own sword, not even in self-defence as he laments the loss of those that he had trained besides, fought besides, and now was to fight against. 

The exhilaration of a raid had not found Eivor; the adrenaline making his heart race and his head pound like the hooves of a thousand stampeding horses but as he raised shield and axe, it was as if he was half a breath lacking, the pain in his sides not from the sword-bunt of Saxon-fist, but instead ice in his lungs as if Hela stood beside him, sharing his breath; simply waiting to pluck him and Ceolbert from this world. 

Eivor knew there was a place at Odin’s table waiting for him, and while he had accepted the inevitability of his death, Gods preserving, he wouldn’t face it for many years yet.  
And neither would Ceolbert. 

With that singular thought driving him, Eivor felt new strength in his grip; axe severing the head of a soldier, watching him fall only to be replaced by another, and yet Eivor still stands ready to meet him. Grip strong, shield up, he fights with the ferocity of berserkers to eliminate the soldiers that overran the city market; Ceolbert always in his peripheral and close enough to protect from Burgred’s men. 

The soldiers bear spears, but the wolf-kissed bared his fangs and devoured the distance between them in a single leap, crashing upon their shields like mountain stone; splintering wood and hewing limbs from bodies as if they were trees in the forest, with no more armour than bark and rind to protect them from Eivor’s silver maw.  
He could feel then, what he had felt when he sparred against Bjorn beneath the gallows tree; power coursing through his veins as if he too was a shape-shifter, shedding skin for a vargr cloak—not just wolf-kissed, but wolf-hide—as he slayed scores of Burgred’s men where they climbed from the woodwork, spilled from the gutters. 

But their numbers are not endless, and soon the last body topples, taken across the neck to lay in his own blood and be taken beyond the fold by his Christian God, leaving Eivor to take in the damage of the corpse-strewn market as he catches his breath, throwing a glare in the direction of Ivarr; loudly cursing and spitting and laughing as he kicks at the dead and teases their corpses with foul humour.  
And Ceolbert, half perched on a bench near one of the still-standing market stalls, hands on his knees and eyes glazed as he stared, unseeing, upon the blood-drenched cobblestone beneath his feet. 

“Ceolbert?” 

Ceolbert doesn’t respond at first, the only sign of acknowledging the reality around him to be a flinch when Eivor comes to stand beside him; voice sharp with urgency when he sees blood on the boy’s armour. “Ceolbert, are you hurt?”  
“I… I don’t think so,” he says, confused almost, following Eivor’s pointed stare to the stain of blood glistening in the dying light of early evening, Ceolbert’s eyes widening at the sight of it. “My God… I don’t—that’s not—” he says, hurriedly, hand coming up to touch. But there is no gash in his armour, nor stiffness in the movement, and Eivor releases the breath he had been holding. 

“It’s not yours, you’re not injured,” he says, softening his words and his hand as it comes to rest on the boy’s shoulder. _Just to make sure,_ he tells himself, eyes racing over the leather and the chainmail, ignoring the flecks of dirt, grime and blood that stain the fur of his own armour in favour to make sure Ceolbert’s mindlessness isn’t wound-inflicted.  
It’s not; it’s shock from the sudden violence.  
Before today, the only real blood the boy had witnessed to be split were that of the deer he hunted, and perhaps a miss-swing in training.  
But this had been a bloodbath, and Ceolbert’s sword still remained unstained.

“I didn’t want it to come to this,” the boy whispers, lifting his eyes from the bloodstain that darkens his coat, standing as he glances to the streets around him and the bodies that pile and bleed, flinching sharply from the sight of Ivarr kicking a corpse over to root through his pockets while he hums some wordless song.  
“I didn’t want bloodshed, I wanted _peace,_ Eivor, and I came to settle this without needless death and—”  
“And could just as easily have gotten yourself killed by any of the guards that found you, or would’ve been dragged before Burgred to be a tool for his victory against your father,” Eivor bit back, surprising himself at the sudden anger sparking like fire in his throat. He’d blame the thrill of the fight had he found any enjoyment in it; and knew that Ceolbert was simply acting in favour of Mercia, peace and the need to prove his worthiness to his own father, but there was strategy and there was foolishness. 

And this was foolishness. 

“I don’t regret my actions—”  
“Then you are a fool.”

Before Ceolbert can bare the fires of Eivor’s frustration, Ivarr the boneless (and certainly mindless), picks up his humour and saunters over to the pair like he’s the new King of England. 

“Well you look pleased with yourself,” Eivor says, his snarl easier to conceal than his frustration, and not particularly bothered about the firm glare he gives the man, more focused on keep his arms folded to conceal his hands and keep them pinned to his chest when he feels an itch prick at his skin with the want to curl them into fists and knock Ivarr into Óðinsdagr.  
“I am, Wolf-Kissed, I am,” Ragnarrson says, voice almost a song as he wipes clean the blood staining his axeblade. “Nothing like a fight to get the blood pumping. Isn’t that right, aetheling?” he grins, stepping beside Ceolbert, slipping an arm around his neck, seemingly oblivious to the emotions silencing the boy’s tongue when the blood on Ivarr’s skin wipes onto his own. He doesn’t look like he’s going to be sick; more caught between the weight of mourning and hopelessness and a guilt too heavy to bare upon his shoulders. 

Ignorant to the recklessness before him, Eivor can hardly blame his patience for breaking, a snarl rising from his throat as he steps closer to Ivarr, arms unfolding, hand curling— “Why didn’t you wait? Burgred wasn’t here, this didn’t need to have been a fight—”  
“But it was a good fight, no?” Ivarr grins, impervious to Eivor’s anger. His smile seemed like he almost enjoyed it, perhaps even eager for another spat, playing with his axe in one hand, jostling Ceolbert beneath the other, as if the boy was in on the joke and just as eager to set about another massacre.

“It was pointless and stupid and reckless. You could’ve got Ceolbert killed,” Eivor growled, only growing even angrier when Ivarr dared to laugh. “Who am I to stop the boy when he wants to wet his sword?”  
“Don’t make excuses. You just wanted to fight, and you don’t care that you endangered him in your search to satisfy your thirst.”

“But I was the one that volunteered,” Ceolbert says, speaking up before Ivarr’s wish for a fight can be fulfilled and Eivor launches a fist into his face.  
The boy sounds stronger than he appears, pushing aside whatever feelings have taken seed from Ledecestre’s fight, distancing himself from Ivarr with a strong brush of his hand, meeting Eivor’s eyes. “When I heard that Ivarr was coming here, I knew that I could be of help. I know that I acted rashly, but I thought that I could end this peacefully—”  
“Have caution, boy,” Eivor growled, voice still sharp from his anger towards Ivarr’s recklessness, and in turn Ceolbert’s too. “You are still Burgred’s enemy, and while you’re not as violent or as bloodthirsty as Ivarr, you are still as much a threat to his reign until your father is crowned. If he or his men were to find you, they would kill you. You understand?”  
Ceolbert bowed his head, apologetic. “I understand.”

“Good, now return to your father in Repton. And do not leave unless I or Ubba call for you,” he says, casting a glare to Ivarr as he speaks, warning the man without words not to gamble the boy’s life again. Ivarr simply shrugs at him, slipping his axe back into its sheath, seeing as his invitation for a fight had been ignored, deciding that there were better things he could be doing.  
Like looting the bodies he had cut down. 

Ceolbert, sufficiently chastised, bowed his head and looked at his feet.  
At the puddle of blood he found himself standing in. 

An unfamiliar feeling of guilt pricked like a thorn in the back of Eivor’s throat.  
He knew that he didn’t want the boy to come to any harm, both in truth that he is a cornerstone in the plans for Mercia’s future and in turn the Raven Clan’s; as well as the fact that Ceolbert himself is a bright young man and easily befriend-able, Eivor one of many who has enjoyed his company between mead and skald songs.  
And yet to see him with his ears flat and tail between his leg like a kicked dog unsettled him just so. 

But with Burgred’s whereabouts still unknown and surely a price to pay from this massacre, Eivor knew that he could not linger, nor allow his mind to cloud.  
He left Ledecestre quickly, quietly, and astride Hati he headed to where Sigurd awaited him in Temblebrough, the ride accompanied by the sour taste of guilt and something too kin to dread in the back of his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Harpa** – First Summer Month (May) _Norse_  
>  **Thegn** – Thane, _Old English_  
>  **Aetheling** – Prince, One eligible for kingship, _Old English_  
>  **Nei** – No, None, _Norse_  
>  **Vargr** – Wolf, _Norse_  
>  **Óðinsdagr** – Wednesday, Odin’s Day, _Norse_  
>  **Skald** – Poet, _Norse_


	2. Kingmaker

_Harpa, Summer, 873_

Burgred hides, just like a rat will cower from the light of a torch.  
And just as the vermin dares to fight back when it is forced into a corner, so does the cowardly king.

The fight isn’t anything impressive: Eivor simply taunting the man for the most part as he swings his blade too high or too far; the wolf-kissed unbothered to arm himself more than Basim’s gift to deflect metal when he steps into Burgred’s blood circle, knocking the sword away like it was nothing more than a butter knife, elbow following fist and Eivor is awarded the victory.  
Awarded, however, may be too strong a word. 

While Burgred is no challenging fighter, and neither the soldiers that guard his rodent nest, they do outnumber Eivor and the other three by hordes; the chase from Offchurch to Venonis littered with Mercia’s colours as the four of them race their mounts down the dirt track roads and breaking through wheat-sown fields, torn between whipping the reins to spur their beasts onwards and turning, mid-saddle, to fire volley of arrows at their pursuers. 

Ubba’s mount was struck when they hit the river’s edge; the mare screaming her pain and fear and panic in an almighty screech, and yet, she kept racing, blood like tar tracing lines down her flank, nostrils wide as she heaved fear in tight lungs.  
Sigurd wrestled with Grani, his own fear struck like discordant strings, hooves slipping on the stones beneath his feet as Ivarr laughed and hollered like a madman, goading the soldiers to chase them further than the horizon and aiming a kick at Burgred’s head whenever he pulled his horse close enough to Hati. 

“We’ll have to split up,” Ubba yells from the rear; his horse having slowed from the surge and drain of adrenaline. “Ivarr and I will hold them back at the next crossroads, while you two get to Tamworth.”  
“I will stay and fight too,” Sigurd, yells over the thundering of their hooves, ducking in time to dodge the whistling fall of an arrow aimed for his back. “That’s it, that’s it,” Burgred yells from where he lays like a deer carcass on Hati’s rump. “Fight, you slugs! Fight and die!”  
“Shut up,” Ivarr sneers, giving his highness another kick to the head. 

But the Gods were on their side this day, and just when as Ubba’s mount begins to stumble, they hear the sound of the Dane horns ring out from atop the cresting hill, Tamworth Fortress just beyond, and between the drawbridge and the charge they saw a troop of Ragnarrsons’ men belching arrows into the air; all to come raining down on the soldiers closing in from behind.  
The first line fell to screams, Eivor and his brother ducking their heads, leaning into their beasts as they devoured the ground to the drawbridge while Burgred screamed and cursed and called for the might of the Christian god to sear the souls of the heathen infestation that scourged his lands. 

His screaming went unheard, and they passed through Tamworth’s gates untouched by Mercian swords, all eager to crown the next king of Mercia and wash their hands of Burgred, once and for all.

* * *

As with all thing’s politics, the time and place are appointed not too soon nor too late; Ceolwulf’s crowning set to be for the morrow after to give enough time for thegns and lords alike to travel to Tamworth to witness, all while the still-king of Mercia screaming his protests from the inside of a cell.  
He curses Eivor over and over; cursing Ceolwulf and the Danes and the name of anyone who can hear him; the entirety of Mercia now his enemy.  
With the exception of Leofrith, of course, but the war-thegn has no hopes in leading an attack against the fortress to rescue his king, leaving the Ragnarrsons’ men to fill themselves on mead and wine and the drunken refrain of victorious skald songs. 

Even when Burgred threatens Eivor with the mention of the zealots, the Wolf-Kissed’s concern is only momentary when he finds himself pulled into the festivities with Ivarr, who’s enthusiasm and so-Hel-it-be attitude has begun to grow on him. Like fungus.  
But the man isn’t the worst company one can keep and he certainly has great stories to keep the crowds entertained.  
While Eivor can’t tell which half to believe and which half to put down to drunken delirium, he respects the man’s enthusiasm in a fight, and knows him to be a fearsome warrior.  
A fearsome drunk too, which he comes to learn chasing Ivarr to the bottom of a barrel come the fall of the sun; his mind empty and free, feeling lighter than he has felt in a long while. 

After a tankard or two, their talk turns to Valhalla, and the dreams of the next life.  
Ivarr knows that he is bound for Odin’s golden halls; to be taken by the Valkyries and carried to the hereafter to join Odin’s army in wait for Ragnarök. It is Eivor’s dream too, although it seems to be in bad taste to share the fact that he also wishes to spend many more years in Miðgarðr; made clear when Ivarr scoffs at Ubba’s similar dream. 

“England has made him soft,” Ivarr growls from behind his tankard, glaring at the table grains as if they had some hand in Ubba’s change of heart. “He was different before. He was like Halfdan and I, mighty and fierce. Vicious even. But this place,” he waves a hand, gesturing to the horizon, distaste clear in the scowl he bears. “He wants for a family; to grow fat and happy, surrounded by children as ugly as he is.” 

Eivor nods along, knowing not to speak. He understands what Ivarr means. What Ubba wants.  
Back home, every day felt like a fight, if not against Kjotve’s men, then against Stybjorn who told Eivor, time and time again, to leave the man and let go of the hate that had been burning in him, ever since the night of his father’s death. In Norway, there had been no time, no real promise of a future in sons and daughters with the clans always fighting one another; a harsh battle with the weather and wild when there were no vikingr to ambush or chase out from their lands.  
In comparison, England was practically peaceful. 

It may be in part to the weight lifted from his shoulders following Kjotve’s death, or it may be the warmer climate, but Eivor felt a sense of freedom here that he didn’t, surrounded by the snowscape of his homeland. 

“An heir is a common dream for most. I came to this country looking to make a home too, and if this path grants me a son…” he says, in hopes to curb the sharp of Ivarr’s tongue, yet more so from the looseness of his tongue; unstitched from drink and peace alike.  
He had come with Sigurd for his sake, equally angry at the unfairness of Stybjorn’s betrayal and eager to uncover what secrets this land held for him. And yet his mind had rarely turned to family beyond that of his brother; maybe a thought to Petra’s skill and matching beauty, another in amusement to the antics of Knud and Sylvi and Eira, (the most recent of which having invited a wolf to join the Raven Clan), but he had never taken the time to sit and contemplate on the babe that may await him in the future.

Eivor hopes there to be a child, more than one if he and his future-wife are to be blessed by the gods, summers apart, but Ivarr would scoff if he thought him to be as ‘soft’ as his brother.

“England was a new start for Sigurd and I—”  
“Because his cowardly father gave his crown to another, I know, he told me the tale. But that doesn’t make you soft,” Ivarr says, leaning forward. “You’re both fighting for what is rightfully yours; willing to take it from another and to not let anyone stand in your way,” he says, raising his voice and tankard in tandem. “Mighty scourge of the north, descending upon the Saxon _bikkja_ as… as….” 

Ivarr stops them, half-risen from his chair, expression twisted mid-thought amusing enough that Eivor can’t help but laugh behind the back of his hand. “Something about spear-din? Thunder? I don’t know, you are the master craftsman of words. I was never one for things like poetry,” he says, slumping back down into his chair, refilling his tankard even though it wasn’t quite empty. “I prefer the joys of hunting things. Killing people. Listening to them bitch and whine and beg for their lives before I cut off their heads. Now _that_ is poetry.”  
“Better to live through it than speak of it?”  
_“Exactly,”_ he grins, lifting his tankard, smashing it against Eivor’s and sending mead splashing everywhere. 

“Now, let us drink to our victory, enough to put even Thor to shame!”

* * *

While Sigurd spends most of his time in the longhouse with Ubba and Ceolwulf, waiting somewhat patiently for the Saxon’s due-coronation, Eivor spends the majority of it drunk and asleep—and half naked, he finds the next morning—which isn’t perhaps the most appropriate way to attend Ceolwulf’s first court as King of Mercia, meaning that by the time Eivor readies himself and saunters into the longhouse the following day, he is one of the last to arrive. 

Ceolbert is also late. 

And once again, Ceolwulf shows less care for his son than his eagerness to be king, waving an idle hand towards the Saxon that informs him of the news of Ceolbert yet to arrive from Repton, simply giving instruction to the lord leading the court to begin with the ceremony. 

Eivor places himself upon the sidelines, unamused as the proceedings drag themselves on. He had thought a coronation was a grandeur affair, calling need for fanfare and farces that would bore him as much as Burgred’s delaying prattle, but Ceolwulf didn’t care so much for opulence when the witnesses are few; the entire affair held in the dimly lit longhouse with a sense of urgency.  
But then, maybe Ceolwulf’s tune would change once he had a stone-claim to the crown that is still awaiting his head. 

Burgred, sensing the man’s greed, or something kin to it, plays his hand at riling Ceolwulf up; tugging at the strings of his patience and putting on a performance for the lords and ladies that have gathered to stand witness to his downfall. He seems to be particular about the way he speaks, teasing, almost, more than just wasting time, and as he begins to pace back and forth on this stage that he has claimed for himself, Eivor haunts his steps from beyond the crowd of Saxons and Danes alike; watching Burgred like one would a deer before the arrow is let loose from the string. 

It is more than Ceolwulf’s patience he is teasing; the feeling of a blade on the back of Eivor’s throat as he echoes Burgred’s pacing back and forth from the shadows. Sigurd, who hadn’t chosen to remain in the shadows, shoots him a confused look, an eyebrow raised in silent question that sees Eivor relinquishing his stalk to come and stand beside his brother and the company of the Ragnarrsons.  
“He’s stalling,” Eivor says, a growl beneath his breath. Sigurd rolls his eyes, not seeing the danger Eivor can. “He’s simply delaying his defeat,” he says simply, a hand up to catch Eivor’s shoulder before the Wolf-Kissed can think to turn on his heel and continue his stalking as Burgred stands before Ceolwulf, crown in hand and—no, now he is on his knees, still talking, still rambling, still playing for time. 

“Something isn’t right. He must know that there’s no escape for him. He must know that he has no choice but to relinquish the weight of the crown.”  
“Defeat isn’t something many can swallow easily. Burgred is simply coming to terms with the truth that he has lost.”  
But Eivor isn’t so sure. 

“He’s waiting for something.”  
“Or someone,” Ubba agrees, having seen the brothers conversing and caught the end of their whisperings as he moved from the crowd of Dane and Saxon. “There are only a few soldiers still loyal to him, but I don’t’ think that he is foolish enough to be expecting that they’ll attack Tamworth to rescue him—”  
“If Leofrith is leading the raid, they might,” Sigurd interjects, nodding along to his own thoughts; all three of them turning their eyes to the cowardly king and his incessant rambling; Ubba and Sigurd finally beginning to see what Eivor can.

Only Ivarr is one to shout without fear of reprimand, calling Burgred out for his games and demand of his execution in the same draw of breath, but Burgred simply uses it as his stepping stones to play another hand.  
“I will resign as King, there is no doubt. But before I concede, I must ask one thing,” he sneers, Eivor’s fingers twitching for his knife as he feels a similar want as Ivarr to see this man dead, Burgred’s smile malevolent and bitter: 

“Tell me Ceolwulf; how fares your son?”

Suddenly, the doors at the far end of the longhouse burst open; a Norse warrior heaving on empty lungs; Eivor’s own, frozen in his chest when she cries out, “Mercian soldiers to the North! Marching on Repton.”  
“Repton? That is where Ceolbert was travelling from,” Ceolwulf says, almost unheard beneath the sound of Burgred’s malevolent laughter. 

“It’s Leofrith, it has to be,” Ubba cursed, hand reaching for his war hammer, as if the war-thegn was in reach of his swing. “That ugly bastard,” Ivarr says, right beside him as the two march for the doors; Eivor already there, his axe in hand, anger flaring like a wildfire beneath his skin. He turns at the threshold before panic can spread, voice rising above the clamour of the gathering, “stay and finish the coronation. I will ride to Repton and cut Leofrith off before he can enter the city.”  
“We’ll muster our forces and follow behind,” Ubba tells him, Sigurd beside Ceolwulf, a hand on the lord’s shoulder to stop him from where he shows the first signs of truly caring for his son. “Save him,” he calls, hands tight around the crown that is moments from being rightfully his. “Whatever you do, you must save my son!” 

Whatever sympathy the Wolf-Kissed might have spared for the man is devoured by a rage that burns his blood hot, palms sweating against the leather of his father’s axe; heart pounding in his ears as he turns from the longhouse, Hati’s name a howl from his lips. She replies in kind, there in an instant and gone the next; mighty paws carrying him over ground, down the hill on which Tamworth was built and through the outer gates before Eivor has fully settled himself on her back. 

The same fear he had felt at Ledecestre sits like ash on his tongue, words given only to his wolf to carry him faster, to hurry her over untamed land rather than the roads; their path as straight as an arrow flying free from a bow.  
Because Eivor knows, for Leofrith, this attack is not to save his king, but to exact a lasting revenge against Ceolwulf. 

And Leofrith need only kill one boy to see his final orders complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Miðgarðr** – Midgard, Middle Earth; the world of men, _Norse_  
>  **Bikkja** – Bitch, female dog _(f.), Norse_


	3. Loyalty

_Harpa, Summer, 873_

The rain travelled with Eivor as he raced across the rising hills and falling slopes, Repton’s walls rising from the distance like black rock; the wood of her walls charred and burning; great pillars of smoke rising thick and noxious into the sky, as if they were holding up the roof of the world. 

From the break of trees Eivor could hear the clash of metal swords; the dull thunk of defending shields; the screaming of men as Repton’s soldiers and those that rode under Burgred’s banner met on the battlefield. To rally them, and rally hope, Eivor drew his horn and bellowed its shout into the morning air; answered in kind to the thunder-din of Dane warriors and the far-distance echo of the Ragnarrson brothers leading their own troops.   
With no time to waste, nor reason to hold ground, Eivor charged astride Hati; his wolf hungering for Saxon flesh. She pounced upon the first soul she saw, Eivor kicking himself from her flank, twin axe blades falling like bared fangs to carve through flesh and blood and bone. 

The fight became a blur of bodies and pain; blood spilt on both sides of the sword as Eivor displayed a lack of gracefulness that had only graced his sparring hours from when he was a child; fists bloody, arms sliced in a recklessness that dogged his every step as he fought his way through Mercian-infested streets, shouts echoing up from the dark, smoke obscuring friend and foe, Saxon and Dane.   
He held his father’s axe tight in his grasp, not letting the muck and filth of innards loosen it as he fought; systematic and enraged; a fire burning inside him both hot and cold. His throat tore the silence to nothing as he yelled hatred for the Saxon soldiers, Leofrith’s name like a curse as it echoed up into the skies; Ceolbert’s name with the same anger that had seen him face Kjotve before delivering his death. 

“He’s here, Eivor, we’ll find him,” Ubba yells from somewhere amongst the fighting, having rallied his troops and led the charge; the sound of Ivarr’s laughter rising like the growl of a territorial beast.   
“Where’s Leofrith,” Eivor demands in chorus to severing someone’s head. _“We’ll find him,”_ Ubba repeats, falling into place at Eivor’s side, just as Sigurd had and there’s something in the moment of Eivor placing his back at Ubba’s—a moment when the world stops to take a breath, the colours sharper, vibrant and picturesque—all tumbling into inexplicable speed and yet Ubba and Eivor ride the surging waves as if it were the calm waters of a river. 

Together they are brutal. Unrelenting. 

Between the two of them, each soldier that they faced could only last a handful of parries from either before lightning-speed and the perfected of honed agility overpowered them. Eivor had never felt such vengeful savagery in the swing of his blades; blood spraying his face and neck, dripping down the length of his father’s axe in hand until his hands were coated with the crimson scales of dragon-fire. 

At some point, the battle a blur, Eivor took a slice across his bicep, and another across the thigh, but they were minor wounds compared to the casualties both he and Ubba claimed as sacrifice in return. 

And yet as they swept through the city of Repton like a hurricane; Ivarr’s axes and fluid lethality the winter wind that led the way, they found neither the boy or the man they were looking for. The fog made it harder to see; smoke and rain and wind obscuring Eivor’s vision as he pressed the Mercians back; heeding the call of a fallen friend time and time again; the echoing haunt of the crows that have been drawn by the scent of spilt blood.   
A warning calls up from the walls; Danes raising shields while the Saxons press, only to fall to a volley of arrows of the Ragnarrsons’ forces; the fight still raging as some clamber back to their feet, some falling to the mud to pray, some to die, most already dead. 

Dvalinn, one of Ubba’s men, cuts down a soldier who had been hiding in one of the still-standing war tents before he can ambush Eivor as he makes his way to the wall and the crowd of blue shields of the Danes. “Any sign of Ceolbert?” he asks, half out of breath in lieu of thanks—Dvalinn not the sort of man to expect as such anyway, gesturing a hand towards the inner city still burning. “Nei, but we caught sight of the Mercian dog, Leofrith, fleeing across the river to the north. He was chasing someone.”   
“It has to be Ceolbert. Leofrith hasn’t come to take the city; he’s come for the boy.”  
 _“Go,_ Eivor. We will hold them off. Go!” Ubba yells from the depths of the fog, swinging his battle axe indiscriminately; the sound of the approaching force abandoned as Eivor turned on his heel and carried himself north, towards the ship yard and the longboats turned on their spines. 

There are more Mercian soldiers engaged in battle, too many for Eivor to allow himself to be caught up in battle; but a crane and a near-finished long-boat suspended above the river is what catches his eye in the lambent light of the battle fires.   
He hauls himself up the man-made tree of oak and timber, using years of hunting from the bows of pines and conifers to navigate trailing rope lines, ignoring the curses and insults and the odd arrow that zips past from where he isn’t even trying to be subtle, or use any of Basim or Hytham’s lessons to pass unseen; mind focused on getting to the longboat, to the river, _through_ the river, hauling himself up onto the docks on the other side. 

His cloak—bear-skin and heavy tog—is discarded there; sodden and heavy as steel and sure enough to slow him down come the following fight with Leofrith. His breeches, boots and near enough every other garment he wears is river-soaked, but Eivor won’t face the war-thegn in nothing but his skin; readjusting his grip on his axe, pushing forward—

“I won’t back down, Leofrith! I will not!” 

_Ceolbert._

Eivor’s pace quickens, carrying him over the rain-slick mud to come face to face with the pair; Leofrith closing in on Ceolbert as he holds his sword up between the pair of them; unprepared and yet finally daring to show the truth of his bravery he has long since kept hidden beneath his fur cloak.   
The grip on his sword is unsteady; the metal heavy in his hands, but Ceolbert does not allow the tip to fall despite the fear the sits plainly behind the mask he wears, feet shifting beneath him, dragging him to the water’s edge as Leofrith stalks closer.   
“Stand down boy. You cannot escape this.” 

“Leave him be, Leofrith!” Eivor yells, having seen the war-thegn’s sword twitch in his grasp; the pair’s attention turning to the Wolf-Kissed as he begins his own hunt, dual axes held at the ready.   
Leofrith scoffs. “I don’t follow orders from you, _Dane._ I follow the orders of the King.”   
“Ceolwulf is King of Mercia, and I don’t recall him giving you orders to kill his son,” Eivor bites back, steps slow but steady, his focus upon Leofrith but attention given to the grip of his weapons; the balance of his feet; the shift of the man’s eyes. 

“Ceolwulf’s claim is false. King Burgred is true ruler of Mercia.”   
“Burgred has bequeathed the crown to Ceolwulf,” Eivor told him, volume rising to match that of the war-thegns, a hand gesturing to Ceolbert who had been forgotten; the boy creeping backwards, taking himself far from the reach of the man’s longsword while Eivor held his attention. “You lie. You filthy Dane—all that comes from your mouth is mire and rot.”   
Anger rolls off of his tongue like dragon-fire; a hatred imbued into the depths of his body, deeper than his bones, deeper than his soul, but Eivor has fought monsters disguised as men before and he’s only half-surprised when he staggers back beneath the weight of Leofrith’s first blow. 

He can’t see Ceolbert as he and Leofrith continue their deadly dance of exchanging blows—neither of them yet to draw first blood—and all Eivor can allow himself to hope is that Ceolbert had taken the hint of retreat and fled back to where the Dane’s are pushing back the forces of Leofrith’s invading soldiers.   
And then, Eivor does see him, ducked down near the tail of a beached longship, sword still raised and ready, looking for all the world like he wants to join the fight but not knowing when—

Leofrith’s blade catches him near his knees—Eivor side-stepping out the way quick enough to save him the worst of the wound, but no quick enough to save him entirely. It was a nasty, tricksy attack; hard to do when wielding a steel longsword but Leofrith had made it seem easy; the manoeuvre deadly enough to incapacitate someone quickly, even if he had used the flat of his blade.   
Eivor spins his father’s axe where Leofrith’s arm should be, but the man shows exceptional agility and has already retreated three paces back; body locked into a defensive stance; flawless and sure; all his years of fighting and training coming into play to guide him through their skirmish. 

The two of them trade blows, dodges, parries, but while Leofrith has years on him, Eivor has fought many, Dane and Saxon, Norse and invader. He’s used to the fluidity of a fight, used to the unexpected of any battle with familiar and foe alike.   
Leofrith, on the other hand, has spent most of his years fighting wars against rebellious peasants that bear no more than pitchforks and burning torches, or faced against his own kin in a sparring match for the entertainment of their lords. 

Knights don’t fight dirty. Vikings do; honour-bound only by the want to die with a weapon in hand and a smile on their face. 

The rain has made the ground soft, the mud slippery, and when one of Leofrith’s swings sends Eivor into a rolling dodge, his hand closes around a fistful of mud and he launches it into the face of the unsuspecting war-thegn; chasing the confusion as Leofrith stumbled backwards, anticipating the attack and parried the blow half-blind.   
He stumbles back, Eivor with the advantage pressing him until he trips on the uneven ground; corned against the cluster of trees near the shore and the scattered tools of the shipyard, the beached longboats and—

“Go on then. _Finish me,”_ Leofrith hisses from where he half-lays in the dirt, grip failing as he struggles to lift his great-sword; it’s hilt, it’s metal blood stained in both his and Eivor’s ichor; the adrenaline like ice in their lungs as they chase air. And yet this victory is Eivor’s to take; the Wolf-Kissed stalking closer. “No final curse against me? No prayer to your Christian God?”   
Leofrith narrows his eyes, but does not bite, hand abandoning his weapon to place over the wound that Eivor inflicted where arm and neck meet—not deep enough to instantly kill, but left untended would bleed him dry before the sun sets. 

“When he made me war-thegn, I swore and oath to serve Burgred until the day I died. I fought, and I lost. We both knows what happens next,” he says, pressing hands into the mud, no longer lying, not quite sitting.   
Eivor lets him. He knows Leofrith’s kind. Knows the man well enough now to know his own sense of honour wouldn’t allow him to attack now that he has admitted defeat, even if the witness was a Nordic vikingr and an aetheling who he had come to kill. 

And yet, Leofrith hadn’t come to kill Ceolbert out of revenge or some thought of retribution against Ceolwulf, but orders from Burgred. He was loyal, prideful, perhaps his only downfall to be that he allows his loyalty to be twisted and tainted by a man that would sooner throw away such a selfless ally to protect their own skin. 

Understanding the battle over, and the victory appointed to Eivor, Ceolbert steps out from behind the longboat. His sheath is empty, sword still drawn, but there is no longer any need for it. No need for him to lower his guard neither, and Eivor flashes the boy a prideful smile.   
Face blank when he turns back to Leofrith, kneeling in the mud. 

“You swore your loyalty to a false man, Leofrith,” he says, something kin to the words Sigurd had spat in anger after his own father had forfeit his future crown. “Burgred abandoned you and the people of Mercia when he bequeathed the crown to Ceolwulf.”   
Leofrith raised his head, anger and shame consumed by confusion. Eivor offered him a hand. “Stand now, and let die the oath to a king who resigned his crown. You deserve to serve a king who gives more than false promises.”   
“But not to die—to break my oath,” he says, and in his confusion, allows Eivor to haul him to his feet, sword left to lie in the dirt. “It is dishonourable. It is—”  
“An oath already broken by Burgred is an oath that needn’t take the life of one so loyal,” Eivor said, voice harsh but strong. 

Leofrith shook his head, breaking the hold Eivor had of him. “No. You lie. My King—”   
“What would I gain from lying to you, Leofrith? I could kill you, yes. But why spill more blood than necessary? Why take your life to give Burgred his freedom?” 

Leofrith shook his head, disbelieving him; not so willing to believe a Norse over his own view of his “honourable” king.   
Out the corner of his eye, Eivor could see Ceolbert supressing a smile, his own sword returned to its sheath as he stepped closer.   
“Eivor is telling the truth, Leofrith. He is not the kind of man to lie,” he says, hand on his friend’s shoulder, gifting him a smile as if Leofrith hadn’t been trying to kill him not moments before. 

And like the changing of the wind, Leofrith raised himself to his full height, ignoring the pain of his wounds and turned to the man that spared his life. “Eivor. You have shown me mercy where many would not. I owe you my life.”   
_Loyal and proud,_ Eivor thinks, a smile upon his face and laughter in his voice. “It is your life, Leofrith. It is yours to do with as you wish.”  
“That defeats the purpose of a life-debt,” he mutters, and yet there is something thankful to his words, where it was that he hadn’t been as willing as he made it to serve a Norse. 

Eivor couldn’t help but laugh. “If you wish to serve so badly, then why not proclaim loyalty to Ceolwulf. Or better yet, our young aetheling here,” he says, turning to Ceolbert, grin only widening when the boy sputters confusion and rebuttal in the same breath. “Eivor I don’t think that’s—”  
“You’re a skilled warrior Leofrith. And Ceolbert is heir to Mercia’s new king; in need of someone to teach him how to properly wield a sword.” 

“But I tried to kill him—” Leofrith argued, surprised at Eivor’s suggestion, as if even he had forgotten why Leofrith stormed Repton with a small army.   
“Leofrith,” Eivor said, eyebrow raised. “If you had truly wanted Ceolbert dead, you wouldn’t have hesitated to kill him. 

“But as I said, your life is yours to live as you see fit. It is your choice to make.” 

Leofrith looked between the pair; Eivor, who had been his enemy, and now, a possible ally; to Ceolbert, who had been friend and student and would’ve one day been comrades; now aetheling and Mercian Prince.   
And now, the boy who he swears his loyalty; to protect with his life.


End file.
